A Journey Through Love

To John and Bryan, the men who inspired me.
To my family, who believed in me.
To my friends, who critiqued me.
And to Love, that changed me.

Author's Note

I feel compelled to explain the circumstances of which I write. I was twenty-one at the time, a senior journalism major at Hood College and a full-time reporter for a news organization in the county where I lived. On a personal note, I was in a serious relationship with Bryan, my high school sweetheart with whom I had made plans to marry. Bryan was in the last years of his time in the military; he had just finished his long deployment overseas when we reunited August 9, 2004. We had two years together, though in honesty we were only in each other’s company for a year, having been forced to endure periods of underway and duty days. He came back as often as he was able, and I cleared all engagements and appointments to be his in the time that he was home.

My parents, much wiser than I, recognized the mistakes in my actions and made efforts to correct me, but I fought them tooth and nail on the matter, which resulted in unresolved tension at home. I stood by Bryan faithfully; in my mind I was already married to him, and so I was even more convicted in what I believed needed to be done.

For two years, it carried on this way, and then at the beginning of Spring Semester 2006, I met John. He was twenty-six, a senior psychology and Latin-American studies major, a native of Bolivia and technically married, although legally separated for more than a year. We took Chinese Philosophy and Astronomy together, a course schedule which allowed us to become close friends.

John made me realize a great deal about my relationship with Bryan, something that my parents were never able to demonstrate, and in so doing he changed my life forever. This is the tale of love and lovers, of one woman’s heart divided between two men, a story told through the confessions of a modern-day Guinevere.

Note to the Reader:

As a reader, you will notice that I avoid using names. I believe that they would have detracted from the abstractness of the poetic writing—I think that it is clear to whom I am referring in any given passage—and I had hoped that readers may be more inclined to apply my emotions, expressed through poetry, journal entries and quotes to add another element to the script, to themselves and their own experiences.

All poetry, journal entries and quotes are written in italics to preserve their independence from the more objective body. Poetry, that which is not of my own design, is attributed to its correct author, and more often than not, is cited beside its original publication.

This is my first attempt at sitting down and writing a novel. It might be amateur in nature, which is why I appreciate any comments, constructive criticism and feedback from those willing to read my online manuscript.

Introduction: The First Encounter

He came out of the shadows like a wolf, and I—like a doe—startled and resisted the urge to flee. I studied him, as prey observes the predator; he was lean and dark-featured as night, yet his voice was soothing, like the sea before it crashes on the beach. His mouth parted momentarily as he placed a cigarette between his lips. We spoke for a while, exhaling tendrils of sweet poison and shivering in the cold. My initial reservations subsided as we acquainted; the next day, I asked him to sit beside me in class.

In the days that followed, we became as one unit—talking, working, studying, eating, breathing together. In all things, we were so alike and so different at the same time, complementing each other in what we individually lacked. I knew of his mounting attraction—and made no effort to hide my own—but I refused to acknowledge the beginnings of what I knew to be affection. Yet like all sprouts, which have an inherent mechanism to blossom, my fondness for him grew and I could not hide it from those who knew me well.

The following is an account of my expressions, memoirs marked from the beginning by dreams, sadness, hope, joy and fear.

In the beginning, I was not alone. I was loved and feared and needed, as a child is to its mother. For two years, I smiled when I had to, laughed when the occasion called for it, made love when I was yearned for and dreamed against my own desires. All this I did for a man, and for the illusion of perfect love. I cannot in fairness say that I was unhappy. I loved him well, and made sacrifices—as all people must—to ensure the survival of our relationship. But in doing so, I forgot what it was to be myself. I was fooled into contentedness, I settled into being someone else’s prized possession, and I refused myself a life outside his own. All the while, someone else consumed my thoughts, and the struggle which followed, a conflict between two men, is the tale that I am about to weave.

Chapter I: At the Crossroads

At the time, I spoke in riddles, featuring abstract qualities of what my lover could not know. I hid the truth from him, as protection for us both, but it ate away at me to tell half-truths and speak a language I knew he could not comprehend.

One night a simple conversation turned bad. In jest, my new companion referred to my high school acting days as the medium through which I was able to lie. Maybe you should win an award, he said. Without explanation, our conversation came to a halt, and I did not speak to him again that evening.

Friday, March 17, 2006

What a show I will put on this weekend. I feel myself breathing deeply before each performance. I feel the heat rising in my face and the blood pulsing in my veins. You will see nothing behind the smiles and the laughs, but inside I burn with anger and frustration and humiliation. But this experience has taught me this. I would rather have a closet full of costumes and masks than to appear onstage naked and alone. I’d rather pretend to be someone else than to risk everything I’ve worked for. So I’ll play the part, and no one will ever know.

[Exit Catherine, Stage Right]

What a magnificent pain
To feel a fist drawn tight around my heart.
It nearly brought me to my knees,
Nearly tore my soul apart.

Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so badly if what you’d said weren’t true. It caught me by surprise. I guess I thought you knew how much I’ve tortured myself this past week to do the right thing. I went against what my mind advised. I defied my better judgment and set myself up for ruin. I opened up, let my guard down. I made myself vulnerable to the simplest and most ill-planned attack.

Everyone is hurt at one point or another, so I don’t pretend to be alone or unique in my situation, but I didn’t expect it from you so soon. Now I feel hurt and embarrassed, angry, offended and sad. Yet after all that, I feel more determined in what I have to do.

That night he wrote me a poem. With brutal honesty and the fear of loss looming overhead, he wrote lines of prose in the early morning hours, and changed my mind about him.

Tonight the saddest thoughts run through my head.
To think that I don’t have her,
To think that I have lost her.

To hear this tragic night sky,
More tragic now that she is gone,
And this line of words falls on my soul.
The night has crashed and she is not with me.

Tonight the saddest thoughts run through my head.
Her voice, her body, her infinite eyes.
Because in nights like these,
I want her in my arms.

My soul is not content in losing her.
My friend, alone in this hour of the dead,
While full of the fires of life.

Tonight the saddest thoughts take over my mind.

I don’t know why I wrote you a poem tonight, he said. I don’t know if it’s good. I’m not a poet. I’m not much of anything in particular really. I’m just honest. I feel like what the lines say. I want you to read it to know how I feel.

My goal is to look at you,
Learn how you are,
Love how you are.

My goal is to talk to you
And listen,
To grab your words and create a bridge
That goes from your heart to mine.

My goal is to stay in your memories.
I don’t know how, really,
Or with what excuse
But to be present in your mind.

My goal is to be sincere
And know your sincerity,
And see that we don’t sell ourselves
To lies.

My goal is in reality
More simple and profound.

My goal is that there comes a day,
I don’t know how or when
Or with what pretext,
Finally you need me with you.

Little did he realize, that night I also wrote a poem, though less in length and thought.

At night I dream of Bolivia
With open arms and willing thought,
And though I dare not travel there,
Sometimes I dream, but ought to not.

That day words flowed through me like rivers; the pen came alive in my hand, and the pages waited patiently before my eager mind, holding endless promises with each new parchment.

I stand lonely at a crossroads,
Looking left, looking right.
I have to choose a path to take,
But neither choice is bright.

To my right I see a pasture.
It’s lush and tipped with snow.
On the left, I see a foreign land,
A road I do not know.

From above I see a blinking light.
It warns me not to go
Down roads of certain sadness,
Where tears like rivers flow.

In an effort to translate these words, I wrote: I see myself standing at a crossroads. Two paths diverge left and right. There is no way to continue down this road I’ve chosen. From where I stand, I can see a blinking stoplight flashing red warnings at me from above. Caution, it says. Tread softly, choose wisely. I cannot turn back now. My eyes are drawn to the right. I see rolling hills of tall grasses and snow-capped mountains in the distance. I gravitate toward the vision; I know this place, I belong to this land. The breeze wraps its arms around me, moving strands of hair across my face. It smells of summer here. I pass through a field of lofty reeds; they caress my outstretched palms and brush the insides of my thighs. I know this place—it’s filled with smiles, laughs, tears, blood, longing and pain, but it is familiar to me, and I accept and cling to it willingly. A voice calls to me, a whisper carried on the wind. It’s a language that I understand, but dare not speak. It beckons me closer in exotic tones; I can’t see where the voice is coming from or where it leads, but I feel its presence in the back of my mind. I can feel sudden shivers down my back, heat in my face. My heart is pounding and I can hardly breathe. I feel drugged by promise—I know I’m being seduced away from what I know. Part of me is frightened; my other half is tempted. In the distance, the blinking light says, Caution.

A defining moment is approaching, of that much I’m sure. It will be quick and cruel, and out of the triad will come a wounded soul. I’m afraid it may be me.

Chapter II: Change of Heart

He returned to me that weekend, in time to assuage my troubled mind. The days flew by in a fleeting moment, and I thought that I had made my choice.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

I understand how it must be now. The haze from my eyes has cleared, and I am back to where I belong. It is good to be home, but I feel the seed of regret nestled in the pit of my stomach. I am determined not to give in to it, convinced that it’s one more string of wounds. I am confident in my ability to numb myself to pain, for I’ve done it many times before. I feel the beginnings of it creeping up inside my veins, and I welcome its icy nothingness. I will not yield to my own petty weakness, and even though it hurts me to do so, I will exchange pleasantries and move on.

For two weeks, I was of one mind, content with my decision to stay with him that loved me so much. I was his everything. How could I take that away? My conscience, my honor, my pride could not bear to part with him, and so I stayed.

The time came for my love to sail away. Duty called, and no amount of wanting or wishing could keep him here with me. In the final days, we held each other up, laughing and crying in equal proportion; in the final days, we had to say goodbye, though neither of us could have known the permanence of the parting.

Tuesday, April 4, 2006

I walk around campus unseeing, unfeeling, like a lost soul wandering aimlessly without a sense of obligation, motivation or purpose, like a shadow of my former self. I see friendly faces; they wave at me. I force a weak smile and move along, not sure why I didn’t stop to talk. Every movement is a burden, and I feel dead inside. There is no consolation or remedy for me, except time, time to dull the pain and time to drown myself in work and school.

I cried into my pillow for the first time in years, trying to stifle the breathtaking sobs of a lover’s lament. If only I could have heard his voice one last time, if only to tell me that I would be okay, if only to tell me to be strong, then maybe I could breathe again.

These past two years have taken their toll on me, and now I’m tired. I’m tired of being left behind, I’m tired of my loneliness, I’m tired of working and studying so hard when I’m constantly denied the one thing I truly want. Don’t go where I can follow you, my Heart. Please don’t leave me anymore.

God, please help me through this trying time if You can hear me. I’m not much for prayer, but I need strength, and I have none left of my own.

I know the fear inside my heart.
I feel my body shaking.
And then I look before me there,
To see my firm ground quaking.

Every minute, every hour,
Every moment waking,
I feel my strength begin to fail,
I feel my heart is breaking.

My love is gone, my hope is lost.
I feel the pain this life has cost.
My spirits down, my sadness great,
I feel my strength evaporate.

Oh, God, I pray, please show Your face.
Bestow on me Your loving grace.
Give me strength and make me strong,
And let me be my whole life long.

I will not cry, I dare not break.
I’ll lift my head and in it take.
I’ll never show, I’ll not display.
I’ll keep my fears locked tight away,
So no one sees and no one knows
Inside a raging tempest blows.

And then alone, whilst not at bay,
I’ll cry and to my God, I’ll pray.
Show Your mercy, light my way,
Guide me through another day.
I turn to You, and here I lay.
I trust in You, let come what may.

For weeks my Heart and I corresponded through e-mail, the only media which was permitted us. He wrote me everyday, at least twice, sometimes more. I clung to those messages, my missives of hope in a time when I had none. Every e-mail began with “Hey baby,” and read “I miss you” in the subject line.

I can’t stop thinking about you, he would write. You have been on my mind all day and in my dreams. I hate this underway, and I can’t wait to be done with the navy and be with you always. All I can do is think about you. My heart is killing me right now, and I have that empty feeling in my chest that I always get when I leave you. I miss you so much. I would give anything to be home with you right now.

Without you I feel empty. I have no purpose in life until I get back to you. You may think you are being weak, but you are not. You’re doing great, my beautiful girl. Crying is not a sign of weakness. I don’t mind crying in front of you, and it doesn’t bother me at all when you cry. The only thing that bothers me is that I can’t be there to catch your tears. Once we make it through these months apart, we will soon be together forever.

He always signed his letters with “No Matter What,” a phrase we’d coined as childhood sweethearts, and sealed it with a kiss.

Chapter III: The Gift

In his absence, someone else began to take his place in my mind. I received a gift, a silver music box that played a classical romantic lullaby, and when I heard it play its chimes, something deep inside me stirred. Each night I played it over and over again before I laid my head against its pillow. Each night it sang to me, I began to lose my resolve.

One carefree afternoon, we happened to venture to the empty chapel, to a grand piano set in the forefront of the sanctuary. For a few timeless minutes, I played for him melodies of long sighs and exhilaration. He watched me in surprise and mild awe while I let myself go, lost in the music and overcome with rapture. I didn’t know you played so well, he said. Can you play Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata”? I obliged, and when I received his gift weeks later, it played that very same tune and read, “To the most talented and beautiful person I know.”

Monday, April 10, 2006

At night I dream of walking in a lonely wood. I hear the trickle of water and the whisper of leaves rustling in the trees. There is a heavy mist in the air that keeps me from seeing above the canopy. I can’t tell if it is day or night; all I see is shadow, and I don’t know where to take a step. In the distance I hear the forlorn chime of bells—they sing sonatas of moonlight.

Even in my dreams, I could not be safe nor protect myself from the choice in front of me. I remained calm to the untrained eye, but the inner turmoil began to weigh heavy on my soul.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

I feel burdened by the emptiness which comes with grief. I suffer it like stones behind my heels. I dread the daylight and crave the solemnity of night. I’ve lost my will to eat, to smile, to speak, to laugh, and even though I hurt this much, part of me is glad to be alone. I cannot explain how conflicted I feel. It’s as though I’m torn from both directions, not by any one person or two, but by my own melancholic relief. Sometimes I feel angry at myself; sometimes I feel hurt and regret, or sadness and fear. Sometimes I feel nothing—this is one of those moments.

I knew I had to tuck those thoughts away. I could not succumb to my own dark reflections, so I relied on the one person I could trust—and he the only one I should have mistrusted too—to help uplift my spirits. In his presence I found peace.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

I laid in the grass, looking up at the sky, with my arms outstretched like a child reaching for the moon. I felt calm and quiet and content as I laid still—surrounded by blue skies, sunshine and good company—and for a split second, my soul was at rest. I don’t know how to describe the feeling, but for some reason, I know I will remember that moment for a lifetime. I can see that vast blue sky, interrupted only by the lazy tufts of drifting cloud; I can still feel the fresh cool grass against the nape of my neck and the small of my back; I still smell the earth, and I remember smiling for no apparent reason. The moment was so beautiful, and yet it is strange to think that something so simple could be cherished forever.

Chapter IV: To Honor

I was alarmed by my sudden happiness. In part, I suppose I felt that I didn’t deserve to feel this way. In my heart I knew a decision must be made, and soon—for while I had passed the point of walking away from him without being hurt—in my naiveté, I believed that I might have spared him by disappearing into the background.

In the early days, I warned him not to fall in love with me, somehow convinced he would heed my admonition. I warned him not to want me or want to be near me.

Don’t want to hold me, don’t say these things, don’t touch my hand or caress my cheek with your eyes, my mind screamed red. Don’t want what I can’t give you.

I warned him not to love me—immediately recognizing the symptoms for disaster—but in my innermost thoughts, I wanted him too.

It was well past midnight by that time,
The two of us having spent all afternoon, evening
And early morning keeping company.

I really want to kiss you right now,
He said under stars and moonlit sky.
I looked away from him,
Hard intent on staring
Out the window of his car.

Don't, I said,
But when I did, I didn't know
To whom I spoke, to him
Or to myself.

Here's to Honor!
And to Virtue,
Both of which I guarded
Well by moonlight
And by fire.

The night he confessed his love for me, there was no turning back. I made up my mind to do what was right, to act according to honor, duty, and unwavering loyalty. Just friends, I told him; it pained me when those words departed from my lips. I hurt him with profundity in my decision, and he left me to sit alone in the dark with regret.

That night I slept without dreaming, a deep trance-like state of blissful non-existence. My battle had been fought, violently and with much suffering, but my conscience rested easy, for it had won the day.

We tried to deprive ourselves of feeling, but circumstance would not allow it. We remained together, and went through all manner of the most unusual series of events, including many drunken hours of parties, clubbing, conversation—which more often than not, led to altercation—and my personal favorite, multiple car accidents. Looking back at it now, I can laugh, but then I wanted to rip my hair out and scream. In my pent up frustration, I danced until the morning hours, drank until I retched and punched walls until blood flowed freely from my hand. Through all this, he was there with me and for me, when the one who should have had his place was never there.

While all of this went on at home, my Heart waited for me across the water. He sat by his computer, impatiently awaiting news from me. He sent message after message, only to receive a few short words in return. I could not bring myself to tell him of the struggle I’d faced off with, and so I found less and less to say to him. I often promised to write him twice in a day, and forgot; some days I didn’t write at all. The petty excuses made were not enough to fool him. He recognized the change in me, and came to doubt my love, while I celebrated my born-again independence.

I cannot imagine what pain I caused him in those days, the suffering he must have endured for my sake, the suspicions my actions aroused. And he, the jealous and desperate lover, took pains to call me in all instances when he shouldn’t.

Chapter V: Accusations

Sunday, April 23, 2006

The phone call came as the clock read 6 a.m. The morning was bleak and smelled of rain; I can’t remember if this truth was real or only so in my imagination, but the promise of dreariness well suited my mood that day.

After a very long evening, we sat in his car and spoke. Neither of us had made it home that night, as drunkenness and sheer stubbornness had forbade. Together we watched the sun rise, and the first brave souls venture out along the streets, all dog walkers and joggers.

Don’t you see how special we could be, he asked. The words took shape inside my mouth, but my thoughts were interrupted by a phone call, one that would change my future, my self-perception and my outlook on love—the defining moment I had anticipated.

Hey, you said casually. What’s up? I knew what was coming, but I denied it to myself like a poor fool in love. Where are you, you asked. I told him that I was sitting in the parking garage, that I’d been there all night long with a friend. When you asked me his name, I told you without hesitation, not wanting to lie. Perhaps at some strange and subconscious level, I wanted you to know the gravity of our situation, so I could free myself of guilt. Maybe I wanted you to know how close he and I had become, how I was quickly losing control and will to be unyielding. Perhaps it was just the sense of ethics my mother raised me with—“Never tell a lie,” she said—or maybe it was pride that drove me to tell the truth that day.

I sincerely believed that you would understand, or try to out of love for me. And then you asked me if I was sleeping with him, in a solemn tone that never meant to pose a question. No amount of words or pages could adequately illustrate the emotions which rushed me at that instant. I was humiliated and insulted by you, by my Heart’s utterance, and the underlying qualities that screamed with unspoken accusations.

When you realized what you’d done, you wept freely with regret and pleaded with me to forget what you’d said, but I couldn’t then and cannot even now. I hung up the phone, regardless of the consolation you needed and deserved; two years of unexpressed frustration, two months of guilt, twenty minutes of hurt and one minute of anger were just the recipe for tears, and I could not control them even if I’d tried.

That night he called me, over and over again. I must have received at least a dozen calls, none of which I answered. Unable to vent or drown me in frantic apologies, he wrote to me.

This is the last message I’m writing you, and then I will leave you alone, he said. I can’t apologize enough for what I’ve done, and I know you won’t forgive me for it. You don’t deserve what I did to you. I’m very tired, depressed and I feel like giving up. I don’t know what to do anymore. If you want good advice, leave me. I would give my life to be with you, but I don’t deserve you. The only good in me is you, and I keep pushing you away.

I felt compelled to respond, if only to explain to him that it was not the accusation that turned me away; it was an experience that opened my eyes to a terrible but undeniable truth. No matter how hard we tried or willed it so, our love was never meant to last. Stacked against all sorts of odds and obstacles, we survived only because I could miss him in his absence and be revitalized when he came home. I was allowed to be myself in the intervals he was away, and the balance between authenticity and reproduction was enough to keep me disillusioned to the inevitability of our love’s demise.

In a crashing realization, I concluded that love was not enough to sustain this wild heart of mine, nor were my affections enough to slake him. And even though I was the world to him, his muse and treasure too, the world was never sufficient; he wanted more, but I could not afford the burden. As long as our hearts beat together in the same steady tattoo, he found motive to live and aspired to excellence, but I was not strong enough to carry him through life. And so I became as one dead to him.

Chapter VI: Grief and Rebirth

Thursday, May 4, 2006

One chapter ended, a new page begun.
What once was firm has come undone.
I cannot know how long t’will be,
But hope is strong to set fear free.

I feel as though one chapter of my life has ended, each page turned with hope, and fear, and broken promises. Now that tale has ended, and a new chapter holds great adventures. The thrills it promises are tempting, but my apprehensions are strong. Should I dare delve into the next without reflecting on the last?
I feel similar to the phoenix, the wretched creature destined to rise from the ashes only to decimate fools that venture near, and designed in abhorrence to die a million times over. There is no salvation or peace for beings such as I, but I remember what it was to hope. Do I dare to dream again?

As I contemplated how best to begin my new life, I felt unsure of myself—timid and guilt-ridden as I reflected on all the wrongs I’d inflicted. I felt no remorse for the decision which hurt him, for in my mind I had no choice, but the unfathomable regret for my Heart’s agony tortured me without rest or hint of compassion.

My heart cries streams of scarlet tears
For all I’ve lost in two long years.
And what I knew was wrought apart
Had paved the way for a second start.
From earth and ashes shall I rise,
Heart set, Heav’n-bound, for clearer skies.

My mother always said to me, “When God closes one door, He always opens another.” I had no idea how soon that second door would open to me.

Chapter VII: First Kiss

One fateful afternoon, I sunk the eight-ball on the college’s tipsy billiards table. As penitencia, or “penance” as they say in English, I kissed him for the very first time, an act that in the past I swore against, but now found myself without prohibition. His mouth was warm, his mustache tickled my lips.

I felt nervous as a schoolgirl in the seconds before we connected, and he laughed and chided me for shyness. Competitive as I am, we played several more games of pool that afternoon—and well into the evening—most of which I lost. The second kiss came easier, the seventh without inhibition.

Chapter VIII: Starting Over

“What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. … Retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. … [And] Take all myself.”

—William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet.

We treaded onward through our journey, locked together in all things but in name or title. Several times he asked me what we were, but I was reluctant to label what we shared. And so we carried on in our intricate charade, while I, in secret, mourned for my poor Heart.

Friday, May 12, 2006

We sipped our cups of coffee, sitting on a banquette in a small espresso bar in town, my little sister’s camera flashing in our faces as we posed. One particular black and white picture stuck out in both our minds. My mother said it looked like we were sitting in divorce court; he said it appeared that I had won the car and the house.

Later that night, he commented on the photograph, saying:

We are both serious. We are both thinking. There is a
Substantial distance and space between the two of
Us. A picture can say a thousand words.
Nevertheless, it can omit emotions that a lens
Cannot capture.

Fear, frustration, anxiety, friendship, trust,
Longing and anticipation. Those emotions
Permeate. Some more for me; others more for her.

What she didn’t know was that I wanted to
Embrace her. Hug her in front of the camera, in
Front of anyone interested in observing. Kiss her on
The forehead and whisper in her ear.

He took me to restaurants, bars, clubs, riverside parks, bookstores, and cafés. We reveled in the match we’d made, both alike in interest, opinion and intellect. I respected and admired him for what he’d come from, and where he’d guided me. Patient and kind as he was, I could not resist to the urge to let down my hair. He coaxed me from my shell, and loved me tenderly.

When he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me tight against his chest, I could not help but compare my Love and him. I did not condemn him for his differences; rather I celebrated them in my own quiet way. I tucked my head against his shoulder and breathed him in with all my might—taking in his voice, his words, his smell, his touch and all things about him precious to me. I keep them in a box inside my heart, a slow attempt to patch a gaping hole.

Chapter IX: Poets' Dialogue

Sunday, May 14, 2006

I went home last night with a smile on my face, wide awake when I should have been fatigued. Driving in the silent night, listening to symphonic melodies of Franz Liszt, I became aware of the beauty of the stars and the serenity of raindrops on my rooftop. I feel as full as the moon was last night, filled with joyous laughter, inner peace and love. As I fell into my bed, I could hardly sleep, afraid that this feeling would dissipate with the passing hours.

But this evening, I felt the power of that moment, still as strong as it was the night before. I see the stars in his eyes, the heavens in his doting smile and the sound of rain in his voice. He fulfills me, of which I can hardly get enough—and in return, I feel eager as a child to please. He asked me once what I wanted from him. I didn’t know at the time, but now I feel the answer rising in my bones, calling out to me in the darkness. I want the full moon.

Monday, May 15, 2006

He wrote of stars and planets, the changing seasons and the senses, each significant by the numerals they represent. Five and thirteen, the day he whispered in my ear, just as he’d hoped to do. It’s me here with you, he said pressed against my neck. He wrapped his arm around my head and entwined his fingers in my hair.

I asked you what I could do to make you happy, he wrote. It was a concern of mine that if you didn’t know what made you happy, I could not either. I observed you, watched you and acted. My fingers were crossed more than once, you know? Now as we learn each other, I don’t have to be so conscious. I can simply be.

5.13. May 13. Saturday.

5. May. Mercury. The perfect fifth. The musical staff. Ocean. Senses. Tastes. Quincunx. Pentagram. 5 elements. Rose petals.

13. Elara. Last Supper. Constellations. Mayer.

5.13.

Both natural numbers bringing together 2 people.
5. Stands for communication. No lie. Communication is what, in a large sense, brought us as close as we have gotten, no?

13. Is more complicated. 5 is straightforward. 13 is tricky. 13 signifies the end of a cycle. 13 initiates the start of a new order. There are 13 lunar months in a year (we both know this). The sum of 13 is 91, which is each number of days in a season. 13 ends. 13 is also the start of the new. 13 brings maturity. For the Jewish, 13 is the age of adulthood. They also bring the 13 attributes of the mercy of God. 13 is also a number of fear. 13 brings apprehension and uncertainty. 13 represents the human fear of the unknown.

5.13. Saturday. 2 people enjoyed each other’s company. 1 person was left drained. 1 person left, observing the full moon and beginning to realize what she wants.

To a large extent, I’m glad you didn’t “13th floor” me and skip me [to go] directly to the 14th floor. On the 13th floor there is the unknown, but also the start of something new. Something beautiful.

He called me amorcita, and I smiled. I was happy for his love, but I had an overwhelming sense of guilt for what I’d helped destroy. It plagued me in my loneliness. As though being punished, I saw signs everywhere—a car, a shirt, a laugh, a song, a street sign—brutal reminders of the crime against my Heart across the sea.

Chapter X: A Lover's Lamentation

Monday, May 15, 2006

I heard your voice today, the first time in weeks, from a saved voice message marked for deletion. I remember the countless times I’d saved your messages, saved your voice for a rainy day. The message was from two years ago; you were wishing me good luck on my first day at Hood. All this time I’ve had it, listened to it, and saved it over and over again. Only now was I surprised and heart-sickened from the sound of you wishing me well.

Last night I dreamed of you. It caught me off my guard, so wrapped up in everything else have I been, concerned with what was immediately in front of me that I could tuck you away in the back of my mind. Your face was distorted with rage and pain as you screamed at me. In a terrifying moment of memory, I felt harsh words and hands sting my back, my face, my arms, my neck, my spirit—though I know they were not your own. You asked me why, with tears in your eyes and frantic desperation in your voice. I had no answer for you, and I have none now. I woke from that dream with blood on my lips.

You took away a piece of my heart, when your country called and carried you away. Now that we are done, I know that I shall never have it back again. We lost our souls to each other in the darkness, and I feel as though we are destined to care with half ourselves, touched and scarred by love. I gave you everything I could, and still I’m faced with the reality that it was not enough to make you happy, even for someone who claimed to love me so much. You promised me forever, but forever came too soon and was gone in the flash of an eye. I’m hurt by the truth, and I’ve become ever more conscious of my own flaws because I could not make you happy. Even when I lay nestled in the arms of another, I feel doubt creeping up on me. You’ve taken away a piece of my heart—from loving you or being hurt by you, I know not which, but I feel it like a thorn in my broken body.

Two years ago, he presented me with a ring, a sterling silver band with our initials and the words “No Matter What” inscribed within. I wore it faithfully all this time, a symbol of his promises to me. Seven years ago, I had given him the same ring as a parting gift. As our romance neared its end, and our happy childhoods with it, I vowed the bond between us would never be broken, that we would always be together in friendship and familial love, no matter what. He never took it off, and had the words tattooed upon his calf.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

My finger feels naked and shows obvious signs of what is no longer there. It marks the end and new beginning of my life without you. It hurts still. I mark myself for love lost, for anger, for torment, for broken promises and dreams. And I mark myself for your suffering too. La sangre habla mas fuerte que palabras.

As the days grow shorter in number until his return, I find myself becoming more and more full of dread. I cannot know what the future holds. What will it be like when he comes home?

I am a
Growing woman, a frightened child, a timid lover,
And a fearless fighter. Conflicted, oh, my soul!

I am a
Wearer of masks, a shape shifter and an acrobat—
A hidden youth struggles against camouflage bonds.

I am a
Daisy in the Wind, Paper in the Flames.
Whipped, bent and broken; devoured, seared and tortured—

I am a
Victim of cruel Circumstance, a force outside my own,
Which taints innocence and beauty with crimson tears.

While perusing shelves and aisles at a bookstore, I came across a book of sages. I sat and turned each leaf of paper with care, searching for answers or advice, a solvent for my wounded soul.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

“When you are lacking in faith, others will be unfaithful to you.”
–Lao Tzu, Tao Teh Ching, 17.

In those unforgiving moments, I hear you weeping glorious songs of grief and madness, betrayal and longing. I’m haunted by strange melodies and visions of a love lost to distrust and desire, and I’m saddened by my own contributions to misery. There is a rift between us now, a deep scar that widens the valley between us. So much history lost, so much anger grows in its stead; I feel cheated of what could have been, and relieved of an unbearable burden.

“When all the world recognizes beauty as beauty,
This in itself is ugliness.
When all the world recognizes good as good, this in
Itself is evil.

Indeed, the hidden and the manifest give birth to
each other.
Difficult and easy complement each other.
Long and short exhibit each other.
High and low set measure to each other.
Voice and sound harmonize each other.
Back and front follow each other.

Therefore, the Sage manages his affairs without ado,
And spends his teachings without talking.
He denies nothing to the teeming things.
He rears them, but lays no claim to them,
He does his work, but sets no store by it.
He accomplishes his task, but does not dwell upon it.

And yet it is just because he does not dwell on it
That nobody can ever take it away from him.”

—Lao Tzu, Tao Teh Ching, 2.

Place no value in right and wrong, pleasure and annoyance, depression and bliss, nor good and evil. Clear your mind of all these human feelings; understand the source and struggle of emotion, for from all conflict comes harmony and contentedness, as they are one and the same.

An older, wiser and more courageous man than I once said that there was no joy without sorrow, and though I know his words hold truth, I cannot disinter what I have laid to rest. My past, my heart, my mind is heavily guarded by years of anger, hurt and deceit. I cannot will myself from this dejected state, nor be liberated by mankind, though I feel my soul pining to be emancipated from this unconscious tomb. In the most tender flashes, I come alive. I remember what it was to be free, and I revel in its magnificence, but in an instant it is gone, and apprehension consumes my mind. Will I ever know what it is to be without chains of guilt or shame or fear—the manacles that I myself imposed?

In moments like these, I turn my emotion inward, but moonlit angel would not let me wrestle my demons alone. I confided in him my overbearing sense of guilt, my head hung in shame. Sometimes I feel drained of life, I said. Sometimes I feel like I don’t possess the strength to carry on.

Then draw your strength from me, he said. Our lives are interwoven now. You are not alone.

He pulled me close to him, and kissed me on my forehead in the dark. I could hardly see him in the dim fluorescent lighting of the parking garage, but I felt his heart beating against mine. I don’t know how long we stood there locked in each other’s arms, but we said goodbye as the courthouse clock tolled midnight.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

My little sister scurried into the dining room, with the phone in hand, to where I sat at my computer. Someone is on the phone for you, she said. I put the receiver to my ear and said hello, without hesitating. I wasn’t prepared for the events which followed—I wasn’t ready to confront my Heart just yet, but when I heard his voice, there was no way to avoid it.

My throat constricted, my shoulders tightened, my breaths came in quick and shallow gasps for air. Although it felt that ages had passed, in reality, it had only been a matter of weeks since we had spoken last. Until that moment, I didn’t realize how much I missed his smooth and confident tone. How are you, he asked. All I could manage was a strangled-sounding “fine.” We made small talk for a while, a meager attempt at etiquette, but at last he asked the question I’d been dreading all this time. Is it over, he asked. I could not tell a lie. I said yes—that simple, definite and finalizing word which loosed a mixture of relief and desperate sadness in me.

I figured, he said nonchalantly. His feigned indifference cut me deeper than the knife, but I knew he was protecting himself. He hurried through a brief explanation of how he felt. I could hear the blame in his voice, and I knew that he felt he had been wronged by me. I listened to him without speaking; I made no attempt to defend myself.

He asked me when my feelings for him faded. At that moment, I wished my heart would just stop beating, rather than to tell him that I still loved him. They never faded, I said quietly, but we can’t be together. Before I could even finish the sentence, I had tears rolling down my cheeks.

Don’t cry, baby, he said. It’s all going to be okay. I’ve always loved you, and I always will until the day I die, but if we can’t be together then I can respect that. I’m going away, and we might not see each other again, but if you ever need anything, you can always call me.

He said “I love you” one last time and then hung up the phone.

Chapter XI: A Mother's Words of Wisdom

I broke down where I was, sitting at the table with my head between my hands, tears streaming freely down my face. Before I realized it, my mother was by my side, stroking my hair. She didn’t say a word, but let me cry hard into her shoulder.

Later when my sobs subsided, she pulled a wine glass from the cabinet with one hand, a full bottle of wine in the other, and sat in the chair beside me. I really love him, Mommy, I said. I called her by the name I’d used as a girl—Mommy—for suddenly, my legs had been cut out from under me, and I was no bigger than a child again. She must have felt my need, a mother’s instinct I’d wager; she wiped my face with tissue and held my hand in hers.

She spoke of her first marriage, the man she’d married before she met my father. He was a man whose name I’d known growing up, but all else had been hidden, lost and forgotten in the twenty-eight years my parents had been together and had us children. She looked at me when she said his name, and she had an expression on her face that I will never forget, a look that I’d yearned for in two long years—a look of understanding.

It’s going to hurt for a long time, she said, and it never really goes away. She told me that she’d loved a man when she was my age. They’d married young—and one year later my mother realized that it was never meant to be. I loved him very much, she said, but sometimes you have to put aside your feelings and do what is right for you and what is fair for him. They’d divorced soon after, and years later, she met my father. Her former lover went on to become a successful businessman, even forming his own company with several branches in cities across the country. Coincidentally, one branch occupied the third floor of my office building, but I never saw the man my mother loved so many years ago.

That night I read passages from Khalil Gibran, the great Lebanese-American author and artist. He wrote: “Then a woman said, ‘Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.’ And he answered: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is it not the cup that holds your wine, the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven? And is it not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed out with knives? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart, and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall find that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

“Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than Sorrow,’ and others say, ‘Nay, sorrow is greater.’ But I say unto you, they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

“Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy. Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced. When the treasure keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.”

Chapter XII: Holding Back

Sunday, May 22, 2006

I woke up this morning with his arms draped around me. He snored lightly in his slumber, his mouth parted ever so slightly. With my fingertips, I traced the curvature of his face, the fullness of his lips, the corners of his mouth, those deep set eyes that reminded me of stars. He represents all things beautiful to me when all I feel is sorrow and uncertainty. I was comforted by the warmth of his body and the steady sound of his breathing beside me, and I knew I did not deserve it.

With him I experience something that I’ve never felt before, but I cannot identify that mystifying quality about him. All I know is that he has captivated me, and in doing so, ensnared me with his love. At times, I feel overcome with emotion, filled to the brink of passion and romance; other times, it feels one-sided, a sensation which confuses and unnerves me.

I feel words building up inside, but I cannot loose them yet. Something holds me back—guilt, shame, fear—I cannot know. There is something binding about the emotions that I feel, yet we still have not resigned ourselves to titles. If he asked me to be his, I could not refuse him, but there is still a part of me which mourns. I cannot speak with him about it; it is not my way to vocalize my heart’s suffering, but I know he understands, he being married once before. He holds me when I tremble in my sleep, kisses my fears away and lets me rest easy in the branches of his arms.

I’m quickly losing control, I can feel it when I am alone, and it frightens me. I think I care for him too deeply. My heart constricts.

You said you loved me.
Those words, oh, how I longed
To say them too,
But uncertainty holds my tongue.

What do I know of romantic love?
An illusion meant to keep us fools
Safe and warm in our beds, our mind’s most
Devious deception.

How can I trust your words?
How much I want to,
How much I do.

You said you loved me in the shadows.
I felt your heart beat hard against mine,
And I wanted to say it too.

Instead I say ‘Thank You,’
For I have no other words.

But know this.
If nothing else in this world is true,
If nothing else survives the test of love
And time, this much is all I know.

I care for you—
Truly, madly, deeply.

Monday, May 23, 2006

Something strange inside me speaks, an unsettling voice which sickens me. Something is not right; I can feel it in my chest, that same uncertainty that made me doubt myself. He speaks to me no more—poets’ dialogue at its end. I hear not its articulations nor its inmost contemplations. A piece of land is now closed off to me, but for what motive I know not. What once was open and free to roam is now obscured from view, and I can’t help but believe that what once was needed has been satisfied. Oh, it bodes ill, my heart! What have I done?

I sought an explanation, and again I found “Love” by Khalil Gibran.

“Then said Almitra: Speak to us of Love. And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said: When love beckons to you, follow him, though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you, yield to him, though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you, believe in him, though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste to the garden. For even as love crowns you, so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth, so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn, he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you of your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; and then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.

*But if in your fear if you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor, into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.*

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; for love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather “I am in the heart of God.” And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. But if you love and have must needs have desires, let these be your desires: to melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; and to bleed willingly and joyfully. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; to rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy; to return home at eventide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.”

When I read this passage, I know not whether I have the courage to do as he instructs. I know both faces of Love, like a friend and formidable foe, and I shudder in its silhouette, my constant companion. I am falling too hard, I can’t stop myself—I can’t go back, I can’t go forward, nor sidestep left or right—I’ll willingly feed myself to the wolves and be destroyed, all for wont of loving you.

The terror is so real, and so near to me now. I’m so afraid of falling in love again, and regardless of my trepidation, I cannot help myself. I’ve become so needy in so short a time; I’ve never felt this way before, and I hate my own weakness. I’ve never needed anyone before, never needed constant reassurance of one person’s affection. I may have transferred all my intentions to my dark-haired lover, in an unconscious effort to replace what I have lost. I feel as though I passed over a period of mourning for my Heart—maybe due to the fact that I had weeks before the separation to torment myself with guilt, or maybe it’s because I gave all my hopes and dreams to someone else. Regardless of reason or motive, I am where I am now and there is no turning back for me.

There are emotions inside me that are growing, some of which I never knew existed. This is all so new to me, and the uncertainty of it all frightens me to tears. I know he is frustrated with me—by his words, his actions, his body language—all express his utter confusion. It hurts me when he says I am cold to him, when all I’m trying to do is protect myself.

He misunderstands my fear, my inner conflict, and I do not possess the courage to correct him. I’m not as strong a person when it comes to matters of the heart. I was hurt too badly, too young, and now I’m not strong enough to love all on my own. I am not as brave a soul as he, this I’ve always known.

What will happen now, now that you have seen me for what I really am? So far from first impressions and expectations, you admitted that you saw me differently now. You said you couldn’t understand my fears. Someday I know you will tire of trying; for certain, one day you will give up. There is no permanence in love, and yet still I cling to hope.

Promise me you won’t hurt me, and I will be yours.
Promise me you won’t discover and abandon me,
Promise you won’t break this fragile heart of mine.
Promise that you’ll need me, and I’ll never doubt again.
Promise that you love me, and I’ll be free to love you too.

Chapter XIII: Letting Go, Part One

I knew I needed to conquer my demons, the shades of my past that threatened to determine my future too. His patience was waning thin, and I was losing him to shadows. Before I fell asleep one night, I made the decision to accept my past, to tackle my evil spirits publicly—and so I started at the beginning, reliving the most painful and secret memories of my existence.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

The vision comes to me clearly, out of blackness and the void. A woman’s cry pierces the air, and I hover above her bedside. She thrashed against the contractions, gripping the edges of the bed with white knuckles. the pain that threatened to rip her full body into pieces. Sweat poured down her pinched features, her perfect face disfigured, as she struggled against the final throes of delivery. She brought her first child into the world that day, a miracle by any person’s standards but her own.

The doctor held up the newborn baby girl in victory, wrapped her in a blanket and delicately placed her in the arms of her exhausted mother. The woman held her, the first and last time she would ever clutch her daughter to her breast, and whispered softly in the infant’s ears. Soon Shil.

Hours later, the woman walked out into the hospital lobby and approached the nurse’s station with a small suitcase hanging at her side. The orderly handed her a pencil—which she took up with her right hand—and a clipboard, instructing her to sign her name in characters on the designated line. She glanced nervously around the bustling lobby, a quick scan for familiar faces, before she moved to make her mark. But the pen remained motionless, hovering inches from the surface of the page when it shouldn’t have hesitated. With a quick thought, the woman jotted down a series of simple lines and quickly set the clipboard down as if it had been poisoned. She turned and headed for the nearest exit with a swiftness in her step. A single tear rolled down her flawless cheek, and she walked out of my life forever.

Sometimes I wonder if I look like her. I wonder if both our eyes wrinkle at the corners when we smile. Did I get my hidden dimples from my mother? Do I have my mother’s face or gentle nature, her mouth, her smile or her joyful laugh? Sometimes I wonder if she thinks of me, or if she’s made another family by now and forgotten the day she named me Soon Shil, “The Pure Sound of the Wind.”

My parents always told me that my mother must have gotten involved with a married man. She had admitted herself to a birth clinic in Kangwon-do Province in South Korea for the nine months that she was pregnant with me—an indication to my parents that she had valued my life and infant health—but in an effort to understand where I had come from, I researched East Asian culture, and found that illegitimate children and single motherhood are considered a family honor’s shame. There was no doubt in my mind then that my mother had moved away from her hometown to hide her disgrace in me.

My parents always told me that my mother made the hardest choice in giving me away. They said she knew that she could not take care of me, and that she chose to make a sacrifice to give her daughter a better life, but from too many experiences have I known young women to sell their unwanted children for selfish freedom of responsibility.

My parents always told me that my mother loved me, and thought of me everyday, but they could never be sure of what they reassured. I grew up loved—I cannot deny it—but in order to be loved, first I had to be abandoned.

I have found that family and friends have meant the most to me through the whole of my life. Through the good times and the bad, they and the love we share have always been there for me, and I attribute these people for everything that I have become. Through painful depression and family ordeals, they have been there for me. I would be lost without them.

When I was eleven, my family decided to adopt another little girl into our home. At the time, I had two sisters, one from South Korea and the other from China. My parents discovered a small orphanage in Vietnam, and set their hearts on a seven-year-old girl named Suzán. When the whole adoption process had been completed, she arrived on a plane to National Airport where we picked her up and brought her home. She didn’t speak any English at all, but seemed that she was happy to be with us, and for the time being, everything was good.

About a year later, Suzán had drastically changed from the angel we had first brought into our home. She lied incessantly and without conscience; she had violent temper tantrums, throwing things and lashing out at everyone around her. It was harder and harder to be at home in those days. Our family suffered dearly. My sister, Megen, became withdrawn and couldn’t sleep through a night. She locked herself in her room for hours at a time, coming down for meals and other small miscellaneous reasons. No one really saw her at all during the day. Elise, once a laughing, smiling toddler, tolerated Suzán’s beatings on a regular basis, and became timid and small. My mother was angry and stressed all the time, fighting her intense feelings for Suzán by trying to be the best mother that she could. And my father, always the strong one in the family, seemed to have lost control of everything, and I will always remember the first and last time I saw him cry.

Suzán had fabricated huge lies and spread rumors around our church community, telling them that we beat her, that we locked her down in the basement and made her sleep with spiders. She told them that we made her clean the house when she was bad, and that we didn’t feed her. After a while, we began receiving calls from Child Protective Services on anonymous charges. We had social workers visit our house and interrogate my young sisters and I; we were almost taken away from our parents and sent to separate foster homes. One small child was tearing our family apart, and it was then that we decided that something had to be done. Suzán could not live with us anymore.

It was a very hard process for us all. I know my mother blamed herself for everything. We found a family in Idaho willing to take her from us, and my parents made the long journey there to drop her off. Despite everything, all of us were sad, and it was hard to say goodbye. For several years, we received letters from her new mother from time to time, telling us how she fared. Although I didn’t understand it, she had changed her name to mine, and told her mother that I had been her only friend. I remember it differently in my mind’s eye, but I hope very much that she is happy. I know my whole family does too.

After Suzán was sent away, my family went through a lot of therapy to get over the ordeal. We had all been transformed in two short years that she was with us; it was hard to remember how we had been before she had arrived and changed our lives, but somehow we overcame it together. We grew from the experience, and though we all feel it has scarred us in some way, we know we will always be a family, and that nothing could ever tear us apart. It made us closer somehow, and we clung to each other through it all. If it is possible, I love them more. I learned more about my family in those days than I have ever dreamed likely. I saw each member’s strengths and weaknesses, but more importantly, I saw their undying love that has guided me through everything that I’ve known. I never thought that anything could touch our lives again.

When I began my first year of high school, I underwent a severe metamorphosis. I had graduated from a very small middle school, our alumni that year comprised of seventeen of us students, myself included. With nowhere else to go, I was enrolled in the local inner city public school. My ninth grade class was made up of fifteen hundred students. Everything was different, the kids were different, the attitude, the atmosphere, the teachers were all different, and I was hopelessly lost.

For the first time ever, I was forced to face the nature of my duality: Korean-American, hardly a valid identity in an environment divided by race and culture. Growing up I had always known that I was different, but I’d never been classified and segregated against for my Asian features or lack of Korean culture. The “true” Koreans, for that’s what they were called, were disgusted by my ignorance and made shameless efforts to shun me.

Those fashion-trendy savants turned their noses up at my loose-fitting and brandless clothes.

One race in particular caused me constant grief. They came upon me in hordes of six or seven at a time, whispering crude remarks and roaming my body with their eyes and hands. Not even the safe haven of school grounds could guard me from being molested in the hallways.

When I was fourteen I became a target, for reasons I don’t know or understand to this day, and no one seemed to care or mind that one girl had been wronged and raped of innocence a thousandfold.

There were times when I tried to defend myself—kicking, screaming and clawing my way out from under them, cascades of salt tears streaming down my face. Sometimes I was victorious, but my triumphs were numbered and never lasted more than a few days. Years later, someone had attempted to explain to me that it was “normal” in that part of the world for a man to admire a woman in such ways, but I could never understand how crudeness, monstrosity or assault lent itself to culture.

Their girlfriends, for it appeared that they all had one, resented me for their boyfriends’ attentions. They made their loathing known to me at any opportunity, and even challenged me to exchange blows, which pride dictated never to turn down. By then I’d built confidence in my ability as a combatant, as I had been instructed by teenaged street fighters and gang members. I made my mark in the ring of fighters, not for any particular skill such as quickness or technique, but for my wrathful ire, disregard for gender-specific battles, unwillingness to give in, eyes slanted by nature and focus, and most of all, my nails which had been honed into razor claws. Among my peers, they began to call me “Asian Tiger.”

I caught one person’s eye in particular. He was seventeen years old and still a freshman in high school, due to his time in the juvenile detention center for assisted car theft, drug dealings and more. He had two children, by two different teenaged single mothers, and had more women in his life than I had memories at my age. It was my wild spirit that he noticed first, and from that first impression, he became intent on taming me.

For six months, I gave him the outlet he needed for anger and security, and never committed serious thought in leaving him. In some strange way, I thought I could save him from his own dark past. His father had left him at a very young age; his mother was a drug-addicted alcoholic who blamed him, beat him and nurtured him in crime. He had so much pain for a man so young. He turned it all into anger, which is where my involvement with him became significant.

If I screamed, he screamed louder; if I cried, he struck me harder; when once I fled, he dislocated my shoulder and cracked my rib when he flung me down the stairs; and so I learned how to tolerate his beatings without a sound. So young for one so wounded. I never told a soul, not even members of my family, for shame of what I had become. To this day, I don’t know if they know or would believe me, my secret so well kept in long sleeves and cheap makeup.

That same year, I was diagnosed with depression. It felt as if my whole world was underwater, and I was drowning in despair. I turned to many different things to try to help ease the pain. I tried poetry, keeping a journal, painting, music, but nothing helped, so I began finding more extreme forms of release, such as bloodletting and self-mutilation, that made matters worse for everyone. In their ignorance of circumstance, my parents tried to help me as much as they could, but I wouldn’t confide in them. They took me to therapists to get help with anger management and stress, but my situation seemed hopeless. The bout lasted for nearly five years; by the third year I was seeing a host of doctors and specialists, up to three at one time, all taking blood and running tests to diagnose and medicate.

One lonely night I tried to douse my desolation in painkillers. With the last remnants of tears drying on my cheek, I fell into a drug-induced sleep, certain that I would never feel sorrow again. Instead, God granted me a second chance at life, and made me wake from death.

Years later, I’ve found my place in the world, but still the past haunts me when I’m alone and dreaming. Some sights I’ve witnessed, some moments that I’ve experienced are things that I would never wish upon another being, even in my most hateful and vindictive thoughts. But in periodic reflections I’ve always come to the very same conclusion—I would never change a thing. Based on the ancient Chinese proverb, my mother always said that I was as the cherry blossom, “a wild flower which blossoms from adversity, the most beautiful flower of all."

Chapter XIV: Letting Go, Part Two

In finally confronting all my shadows, I came to the realization that my vulnerability had crippled me.

He wrote to me, venting his frustrations. He declared his disappointment in me; his confusion and his interpretation of my actions hurt me in the same way I’d hurt him, but I still could not rally enough courage to confide in him. How many times could I risk to bare my neck before the blade? I knew that I was losing him.

I wrote a longer message that I decided not to send. I’m frustrated because I have given much of myself to you, and after a weekend that I felt brought us closer together, I feel as though you’re pushing me away. I don’t know what you mean to accomplish with this. You know my feelings for you, so what you’re currently doing is very hurtful. I would understand better if I deserved this, but I have done nothing that merits this. How would you feel if after all we’ve been through I began to push you away? If you want to lose me and ask me to leave, so be it, but address it. Don’t put me on a course that goes in circles. I told you before I feel as though I have a second life. I want you to be there with me as I start it, but I have no idea what you want, so please inform me and remove the uncertainty that was not present just this afternoon.

In desperation I met with an old friend at a Chinese restaurant across the street from my office building. I told him everything, and I trusted that he would understand me.
There was no point in holding back, my friend advised me. The fear is always with you; it never goes away, regardless if you’ve hurt or not. If there’s a chance that you could be happy too, then why not take it?
When I returned, I translated for him all that he had wanted to hear from me. He listened when I spoke, never interrupting, as I confessed my fears.

I’ve never dated a man before that didn’t need me, I said. It was never in my capacity to love someone who did not feel more so inclined toward me. My affection was never equal to theirs. I suppose it was my only defense, my only safeguard, to shut down some part of me. In that way, I was always able to walk from each relationship intact on my own terms, and after years of this emotional drought I don’t know how to let go. I’ve never known anything else.

He is not this way, which makes him such a threat to me, because in my weak state he could do much more damage to me than I to him.
When I finished, he said ‘thank you.’ At last he understood, and he did not criticize nor chastise me for my ungrounded apprehension, but soothed me. I felt relieved to have him know my mind, and we carried on as if nothing ever happened, both free from frustration, confusion, fear and anxiety. A fresh beginning, a thing of beauty.
But as if my Heart could feel my life moving on without him, he was not content in letting me go.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

Foolishly I believed that the struggle with my Heart had ended, but love is never so simple it seems. There is no black or white, no right and wrong, nor the epic ending of good’s triumph over evil. Love has many faces—all in shades of gray—many names and guises and tastes, yet it still retains that awe-inspiring ability to change people for better or for worse.

We met in a parking lot illuminated by street lamps. I hadn’t seen him in more than two months, and even in the darkness I could see how much his time away had changed him. His features were drawn and pale, as if he’d been deprived of sleep and food for years. His clothes hung baggy on his diminished frame, and I felt pity for him.

I wanted to tell him that there was no fairness in what we faced; I wanted to comfort him, and to tell him that ours is the story of two people in love that were never meant to be together. All these things I wanted to tell him, but when he laid the blame on me for all things wrong about us now, I paced the streets like a caged tiger, hardly able to see through my own anger. It was like a haze that shielded my eyes. He couldn’t understand, yet I’d past the point of willingness to explain, and I felt repulsed by his tears, his pleas and touch. He said my name over and over again, as if calling out to me would bring me back to him, as if it would let him hold on a little longer, but it was too late to change my mind.
The first and only one to break my heart … a Heart fashioned after my own.

I made a mistake, Casey. He called me by my childhood name. People make mistakes. This was the hardest time of my life. There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think about what I’d done and what I’d lost. When they said heartache, I didn’t know that it would hurt this much. Looking back on it all, it’s like an emotional nightmare. If you ever wanted to get back at me for anything I ever did, this is more than enough. I was stupid, and I more than paid for it. I can see why you don’t want to be with me right now, but at the same time, I wish you would find it in your heart to forgive me. I’m willing to work through every bit of hardship with you. I do love you, and I’ve never loved anyone more in my entire life. I don’t know why I did what I did, but I swear to you I’ll never do it again, because I realized what I did and I promise to appreciate you much more because I’ve realized a lot. Don’t let everything we’ve worked for be ruined over a question.

So many promises he made to me that night, but I had not the ears to hear him. In my mind and cruelty, I wanted him to suffer as I had, to know what he had done to me. Perhaps to others I seem heartless, but when the person who loves you the most betrays your heart and portrays you as a fool, I can only protect myself through anger.

We said our goodbyes and parted ways. It is finished.

Chapter XV: Moonlight

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

As I continue on this journey, I begin to understand the difference between necessity and love. A romance sprung from darkness transforms my cruelest day to gentle night and fills my soul with joy. How beautiful the trees and each whispering blade of grass, how lovely the chirp of crickets and the owls. How handsome my lover’s eyes by moonlight!

Perched on the steps outside his door we sat under a cloudy sky. We celebrated the sun’s antithesis by the light a single star in Heaven. Like laughing children we hailed in a new day, singing “It’s a Wonderful World.” It came to me then, the splendor of living and loving. My fears have been apprehended, the veil has been lifted from my eyes at heart’s long last and I rejoice in the absence of daylight. I see such beauty in darkness, such peace in quiet, such pale brilliance in the moon, such fulfillment in the calm when all the world lays tucked inside their beds except us creatures of the night.

His spirit is as the oak, strong and rooted to the ground. In foul gales of wind and volleys of rain, I clung to his outstretched branches, and he my only hope delivered me from the storm. He ushered in the dawn like Mercy’s sweet unguent on mourning; I am saved. For love and gratitude, I offer myself and all the pieces of my broken heart to him. As bark and bone shall grow together, so my soul be knitted into wholeness for each caress and tender gaze bestowed on me.

I am swept away by the current, not for evil but for my own love of him. I let the flood overtake me as it infiltrates my lungs, I give in to the pleasure of drowning in his arms. In these few and heartfelt pages I admit it freely that I love him, but the words have never left my lips.

Chapter XVI: My Heart's Games

Word has come back to me, my Heart’s intention, that he is moving on. There are signs of it everywhere in messages, pictures, sites and conversations. I suppose I should feel happy for him, but I know my Heart too well. I see what he is doing. If it weren’t for the fact that we’d played this game as children, I would be hurt by his eagerness to move on, but a feel a hint of recognition in his actions.

In the days of high school sweethearts, our relationship came to an end. He kept in touch with me only through my little sister, with whom he corresponded regularly. Some things he said to her, I’ll never forget them, so deeply they cut into my pride. When we reunited less than a month later, he told me that he had drawn my poor sister in as a way to reach me. She was fourteen at the time; I remember how she used to cry herself to sleep.

Years later when I had gone to college, and he off to the military, he dated my best friend to the same end.

Once we spoke of all that had happened, and he explained that he was searching for a way to stay in my life, for word of me and a way for me to receive word of him. His ultimate intent was to make me jealous and regretful. Now I see him maneuvering around the same board again, more than seven years later after his first unexpected strike. It still hurts, but this time I am more prepared to cope.

I understand his feelings. I know he blames me, even though he would take me back under his wing in a heartbeat if I asked. We blame each other for what happened, both of us wallowing in irrelevance. It seems as if our love was poisoned with the seed of Doubt, a sapling that shot up from the darkness like volleys of toxic arrows. Regardless, blame does not matter anymore. What’s done is done. I have no regrets.

Seldom you will find that life is fair, my love. The most atrocious crimes are committed against the innocent, their lives tainted forever, and they, poor victims of circumstance, forced to drift in spiritual purgatory or have their bones thrown to the dogs. Love is in our nature, as is cruelty. I’ve learned to expect both. But like the light at the end of the tunnel, a marker for immortality, there is life after death as there is hope after a broken heart.

Our strength comes from our ability to move on, regardless of how deeply we’ve been wronged. To what end or purpose do we lay the blame on others or ourselves? There is no healing that which still festers and bleeds. Forgive yourself and me, and let us move away from anguish on to grace.

Let go of past wounds, my love,
For you will never truly know the face of happiness.
Let go of blame and loathing,
Seek truth within yourself.
Let go of vengeance,
For it will not heal your heart or mine.
Let go of pride,
It will not save you.
Let go of doubt and insecurity,
For there is no life if garbed in cowardice and despair.
Let go of anger,
It turns the heart to stone.
Let go of me, my love,
For I cannot give you joy.

Just as I had predicted, he contacted three of my close friends: my little sister, again, and two of my best friends. Two of them he contacted under pretenses outside of our sad realm, but the last he wrote to with sincerity at last.

Hey Jen. I have what is going to seem to you an odd question. Would you mind if I called you tomorrow or whenever you're not busy? I know we never talked much before but there is something that I want to talk to you about. I don't have your number but if you don't want me calling you I can completely understand that. I can imagine this must be a little awkward. Well take care and I'll talk to you later.

I know what you are doing. Do you think me that naïve? I get paid to have my inside sources. Or … is it really your motive to move amongst my friends without ambiguity?

I cannot banish him from my thoughts. He won’t let me; instead he selfishly plays these childish games, and moves my friends around me like pawns on a chessboard. It’s as if he believes that they would not convey his messages to me, but I know he is not that obtuse. What clever manipulation! And though I know his strategy and execution, his ploy has been achieved, for I cannot rid him from my mind.

Chapter XVII: Sentido de su Ausencia

Si yo me atrevo
A mirar y a decir
Es por su sombra,
Unida tan suave
A mi nombre,
Alla lejos
En mi memoria,
Por su rostro
Que ardiendo en mi
Poema
Dispersa
Hermosamente
Un perfume
A amado rostro desaparecido.

If I dare
To look or speak
It’s because of her shadow,
United so softly
To my name,
Far away in the rain
Of my memory,
Or her face,
Which burns in my
Poem.
She beautifully disperses
An odor
Of a beloved vanishing face.

Él me dijo que no podría ver mi cara en sus sueños. No sé que lo significa, pero despues de leí su poema, me sentía un gran sentido de la pérdida. Este puedo entender bien. Pero de esto, pensé:

What is Sadness,
But an opportunity to know joy?
What is Loss,
But a chance to cherish what once you had?
What is Death,
But the gift of one full life?
What is Fear,
But adherence to what you care for.
What is a Nightmare,
But the capacity to dream?
What is Regret,
But the appreciation of longing?
What is Hate,
But a stepping stone to love?
What is Anger,
But an outlet for that which has touched you deeply?
What is Blame,
But an attempt to uplift oneself?
What is Doubt,
But the incentive to hope?

I felt his absence as he, I’m sure, felt mine. My shame left me restless many nights—tossing and turning with guilt—but slowly I began to mend myself, to piece together what had been wrought apart by my own conscience.

Chapter XVIII: Forgiven

In private thoughts my insecurity runs rampant, plowing down dozens of built-up reassurances that stand between confidence and cowardice. The battle which ensues is one among me, myself and I, each of us the murderer, the martyr and the enslaved. A combatant against myself, I am my own self-inflicted enemy, the gilded dagger and seeping wound in one.

Hey Jen. I don’t want to ask you anything about Casey. I know you and her are really good friends, so I wouldn’t do that to you. I am done with Casey. I still love her, yes, but I’m moving on. I just have things that I want to tell you. I can definitely understand that you think I would be calling you to get some information or something. The bottom line is that I know that Casey was cheating on me or thinking about it. I know she was interested in John. I told her I always wanted honesty and no secrets between us. Well, that’s definitely not what happened. She never told me the truth of her and John. When I talked to her when I came back, she had definitely changed. She no longer showed any interest in me whatsoever and she had this look of hate for me. I had never felt hurt like that before in my life. I also know about the story she is writing about it. Her love for me was false. Nonetheless I wish her the best. I no longer want her back, and I know she is done with me, so it works out. Anyway, I don’t want to call you to pick questions at you. If you don’t want me to call, I can understand. Thanks for talking at least.

After I read his message, I confronted him about his strategies, and he defended himself with ferocity. He pointed his finger at me and bestowed on me all his sleepless nights, anger and tears. I made no effort to defend myself, for I felt his convictions were grounded enough to condemn me. I let him loose all his frustration on me, retribution for what I’d done to him.

My lover chastised me for it. He said I have little value in myself, a low esteem that not only puzzled and disturbed him but also hurt us. My own injury and private suffering pushed him further away from me. He asked me why I allowed one man to make such a heavy impression on my image, why I didn’t stand up for myself, and the only thought that ran through my head was, “It was not unwarranted.”

For all the hurt and disappointment that I’ve unleashed, for all that which I called upon myself, I deserve a harsher punishment and the choice to sacrifice myself for a better person’s happiness.

But for the sake of my newborn love, I promised him to free myself of guilt, and he, in turn, promised patience.

At the time, I was reading Khalil Gibran’s The Beloved. I didn’t know it, but I’d happened across the one man who could alleviate me of my culpability through the story of another woman, a woman named Rose al-Hani.

Gibran visits his friend in Lebanon, a man who has recently lost his wife to another man.

He says, “If your portion of existence is a bird that you love, if you feed it with the grains of your heart, give it to drink from the light of your eyes, make your ribs to be its cage and your inner being its nest—then, if while you are looking at your bird and bathing its feathers with the rays of your soul, it flees from you and flies away circling above the clouds, if it then descends into another nest and there is no way to make it return … what then, sir, would you do? Tell me what you would do and where you would find patience and consolation, how you would revive your hopes and aspirations? … This is all that I am able to say. Don’t ask me any more, and do not mention my affliction aloud. Rather, leave it to be a mute affliction. Perhaps it will grow in silence and kill me and give me peace.”

With understanding, I recognized the friend to be the voice of my Heart. What ungrateful and sinful wretchedness! speaks my conscience.

A few days later, Gibran meets the adulterous mistress, but finds that she is more than he expected.
“A woman’s happiness is not to be found in a man’s wealth or in obedience to him, nor even in his generosity and kindness. It is to be found in the love that binds her spirit to his, a love that pours her emotions into his heart, that makes them one limb of the body of life, one word upon the lips of God,” she said.

“When this painful truth had become clear to my sight, I felt like a thief in Rasheed Nu’man’s house, eating his bread and then lurking in the darkness of the night. I knew that every day I spent near him was a ghastly lie, a lie that hypocrisy wrote in letters of fire upon my brow for heaven and earth to read, for I could not give him the love of my heart in return for his generosity, nor could I bestow the affection of my soul upon him in payment for his sincerity and goodness. I tried, futilely I tried to learn to love him, but I could not, for love is a power that creates our hearts. Our hearts cannot create love … Love descends into our spirits by a decree of God, not by human intention. Thus, for two long years I remained in that man’s house, envying the meadow larks their freedom, though the daughters of my own kind envied me for the prison in which I lived. Like a mother whose only child has died, I mourned the heart that had been conceived by knowledge, that had been sickened by law, and that died every day of hunger and thirst.

“On one of those black days, I stared from behind the darkness and beheld a diaphanous ray of light shining from my eye upon a youth walking alone on the paths of life, a youth who lived alone with his papers and books in his small house. I shut my eyes so as not to see that ray and said to my soul, ‘Your lot is the darkness of the tomb. Do not covet the light!’ Then I cried out and heard an exalted song, a song whose sweetness made my limbs tremble and whose purity seized my whole being. I covered my ears and said to my soul, ‘Your lot is the hellfire that roars in your ears. Do not desire song!’ I closed my eyes so as not to see and I blocked my ears so as not to hear, but my eyes still saw that ray, though they were closed, and my ears still heard that song, though blocked. At first I felt the terror of the poor man who finds a jewel near the palace of the prince. In his fear he dares not pick it up, yet his poverty will not let him leave it. I wept like a thirsty man who has seen a sweet spring guarded by wild beasts and who throws himself on the ground to wait and despair.

“Some people come forth from eternity and then return to it without having tasted of true life. They cannot apprehend the essence of a woman’s pain when her soul stands between the man she loves by the decree of heaven and the man to whom she is bound by earthly law. It is a tragedy written with a woman’s blood and tears, but a man reads it as comedy because he does not understand it. And should he come to understand it, his laughter becomes debauchery and cruelty. His anger pours down upon the woman’s head like the fires of hell, and he fills her ears with blasphemy.

“It is a story of pain. Dark nights act it out within the breast of a woman who finds her body chained to the bed of a man she knew as a husband before she ever knew the meaning of marriage. She sees her spirit fluttering around another man whom she loves with all the love that is within her spirit and with all the purity and beauty that is within love. It is a fearful struggle that began when weakness began in woman and strength in man. It will not end until the days of the servitude of weakness to strength have ended. It is a terrifying war between the corrupt laws of men and the sacred affections of the heart. Yesterday I was driven into this battlefield and nearly died of fear, nearly melted away in tears, but I stood up and cast off the timidity of the daughters of my kind. I freed my wings from the bonds of weakness and submission and rose in flight through the air of love and freedom. Now I am happy, near this man. He and I came out from the hand of God as a single spark before the ages began. There is no power in the world able to deny my happiness, for it arose from the embrace of two spirits linked by mutual understanding and shadowed by love.

“Yesterday I was like an inviting table, and Rasheed Bey would come to me whenever he felt a need to taste of it, but our souls remained apart like two lowly servants. When I comprehended this knowledge, I hated the servitude. Though I tried to submit to what they call ‘my lot,’ I could not. My spirit refused to spend all of life bowing before a fearful idol raised by dark generations of the past, an idol which they made law. So I broke my bonds, but I did not cast them away until I heard love calling and saw my soul prepared for a journey.

“This is my story, O man. This is my justification before heaven and earth. I repeat it, I sing it out … This is the difficult path that I travel to reach the summit of my happiness. If death should come now and snatch me away, my spirit will stand before the high throne without fear or dread—indeed, with joy and hope. My conscience will be unwrapped before the Most Great Judge and it will be seen to be pure as snow, for I have done nothing that was not willed by a soul that God split off from His own Self. I have followed only the call of the heart and the echo of the angels’ song.”

Such fervent beauty and passion in her voice! I found that I could relate to her, I could hear my own mind in her convictions, and the dawn of understanding broke on my horizon.

I committed myself to a good man. In my youth I gave myself to him without knowing my own identity first, and in doing so, I came to resent the choice I’d made. Honor and remembrance, instead of law, bound me tightly to him, though I dreamed of someone else. Miscommunication proved just the escape, and I, my hopes in tow behind me, departed from the glass house that I’d made.

I’ve not been able to forgive myself for what I’ve done to him or how I’ve let him down. There was no doubt he had been wronged.

After Gibran leaves the house of Rose al-Hani and her lover, he reflects on her story “and all the beginnings and endings entwined within it.” He “remembered Rasheed Bey Nu’man and saw once more the agony of his despair and unhappiness."

“He is a wronged and wretched man, but does heaven hear him if he stands before it wronged and complaining of Rose al-Hani? Did that woman sin against him when she left him and followed her won freedom? … Which of the two is the wrongdoer and which the one wronged? Which would you say is guilty and which innocent?”

Who among the pair is evil or wicked or deserves the most blame? Is there one among us lovers that can point their sinless finger at me and call me adulterous or cheating? Forget what you know of fault and blameworthiness, for in love there is only fate.

Forgive yourself and my divided heart; my only crime was to love two men. For this, I no longer feel remorse. Instead I feel overjoyed that this feeling can be distributed in such richness and proportion. I am freed of guilt at last; my spirit soars.